


nevada truths

by sweetwatersong



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Escape, Gen, Hallucinations, Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 12:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwatersong/pseuds/sweetwatersong
Summary: “You know,” Clint says wearily, resting his elbow on a bent knee, “they tell stories about you in the Army.”The legend of Captain America isn't only in trading cards and comics. It's become a part of the military lore, become synonymous with hope in a desperate hour, and if he's honest Clint could really use some right now. Stuck in a godsforsaken desert, with no escape route and no rescue, he's just trying to figure out if he'll ever make it back to his team.





	

“You know,” Clint says wearily, resting his elbow on a bent knee, “they tell stories about you in the Army.” His voice is exhausted and stumbling and worn, the creases in his hands coated with dust and blood and shaking from the recent stint of overexhaustion. Being held for a few days in a fucking HYDRA encampment did that to a person.

“What did they say?” The hallucination crouched beside him asks, and Clint can recognize his own first responder training in action. _Keep the victim talking. Encourage them to stay with you._ So here is Captain America, under the damned blazing sun in a desert wasteland, trying to get him to stay coherent, to stay cognizant. To stay here.

Like he has anywhere else to go.

“They said a hell of a lot,” Clint replies with a huffing laugh, and fuck, that hurts. “Marines swore that only someone who failed so fucking spectacularly at camouflage could ever belong with us grunts.”

A mortar goes off somewhere nearby, throwing concrete and dust into the air. He doesn’t flinch at the noise anymore, just crouches unsteadily on the ground when it shivers underneath him. What he wouldn’t give for his bow and a quiver, even full of the stupid trick arrows Tony had made him. Who would ever have taken him seriously about something like a boomerang arrow?

“Some of the guys, they said that America already made the perfect soldier, and look what happened to him. So they didn’t try as hard, push themselves as far. You had already been there, done that, and an awful lot of good it did you.”

An awful lot of good his own escape is doing him. HYDRA hasn’t sent up the alarm yet because the small contingent manning the base – or a laughable imitation of one – has pissed off the local militia and is dealing with the consequences. Clint can’t say he’s upset at that particular turn of events.

“Course, there were ones who admired you, who joined because of you. Did you ever meet them during the war? The poor souls who wrote their names down and found themselves overseas, all because they were chasing your shadow. By the time I signed up, anyone who idolized you knew what they were getting into, knew what hell would be like. But back then, fresh off the news reels and everyone’s hero…”

Clint pauses, not so much for an answer as a breath that really fucking hurts. He knows a response won’t be coming. His conscience has never had answers for these kinds of things.

“Heard a few claim that when they had no hope left, you’d appear. Just for a second, to point the way or help them up. You with your gaudy outfit and that damned shield of yours. Say you guarded the Army. Talked about how you watched over us and fought for us even after death. Which, thanks for stopping by today to do that. Even if it’s a lost cause. I’m not sure how much fight I have left in me.”

He takes a breath, slow and painful and finally admits that the rib that had been bothering him – augh, and two or three of its neighbors – are definitely not lightly bruised. Good thing he managed to return the favor on his way out of that crudely designed cell.

“And what did you say?” The vision that looks like Steve asks, low and quiet and honest. Because that’s what he is, isn’t it? Always honest. Clint smiles. It feels like it breaks something in him.

“Didn’t say anything. You were dead, same as every other good soldier, and that was that. I learned a long time ago that the people you think are larger than life turn out to have some pretty fucking terrible flaws.”

The shelling is over, at least as far as he can tell, and Clint’s head sinks lower. Extensive bruising. Dehydration. Right leg muscles, badly wrenched; neck, complaining pretty loudly. Ribs, knee, ankle on the left side: well, let’s just say they weren’t looking so hot.

“And now?” There’s that wry, faintly rueful note that so many people miss because they don’t expect Captain America to have anything like self-doubt or self-awareness. Like he’s not human, same as them. Clint would laugh again but he’s definitely underestimated that fifth rib. 

“You care too much,” he answers tiredly, amused and disapproving and acknowledging the simple truths. “You fight for what you believe no matter the cost. To you, anyway. Which, so you know, makes the rest of us worry too fucking much. You really don’t get when to quit.”

“You’re one to talk, Barton.” A hand enters his vision. It’s a battered leather gauntlet – or a blue SHIELD-patented glove – or maybe just pale, garden variety human skin. Clint looks at it for a moment, well aware that all he wants to do is stay down, to stay put. He’s gotten up so many times, today and the day before that and all those years now behind him, he’s pulled himself up from the bottom again and again and again. He’s _tired._

Then he sighs, ignoring the screaming pain running down his spine, and grasps the offered hand.

Steve pulls him to his feet, unquestionably real and solid and inexplicably by his side, leader and soldier and teammate all in one. “Ready to go?”

Clint stares at him for only a moment before he nods. "Sounds pretty damn good to me, Cap."

Five minutes later they’re at the edge of the camp and dragging the tarp off of Steve’s motorcycle when shouting and the roar of engines breaks out in the distance. Clint makes a noise in the back of his throat and reaches stiffly for the quiver and collapsible bow strapped to the bike.

“Great. You know what, you drive, I’ll hold them off.”

Steve gives him a hard stare that’s about to turn into an argument when Clint notices and cracks a smile. “I did do trick-riding in the circus, Cap. This won't be my first time getting creative on a bike. What? You actually thought I was volunteering to stay behind?”

“There’s enough room on here for two, even if one’s unconscious,” Steve counters, and at that Clint laughs.

They hit the dusty trail going full throttle. Steve guides the bike over the uneven terrain with a steady hand as Clint looses arrow after steady arrow back at their pursuers, drawing and firing as the wind of a new road washes over his face. And it’s simple, really; they’re just survivors and soldiers, guarding each other’s backs. They’re heroes of another breed, bent and battered but never fully broken.

Ribs heal. Bruises fade. And you know what’s awesome about boomerang arrows?

They come back.


End file.
